


Massage Therapy (or I Need You to Knead Me)

by tsuristyle



Category: SMAP
Genre: M/M, Massage, and years of denial, good for sudden backaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle/pseuds/tsuristyle
Summary: He flips open his phone and thumbs through the contacts idly, searching for someone who could possibly help, someone who just happens to have an interest in massage lately, someone who is probably just selfless enough to crawl out of bed and drive all the way over there to give him one. He knows full well what name he's going to end up on, but he needs to scroll past it a few times before he can draw up the courage to call it.His back twinges a little, and he winces. Okay, what the hell, here goes.(Pure self-indulgent Nakatsu fluff. Written September 2013.)





	

Nakai can't concentrate.  
  
He'd been relaxing in the break room, watching baseball, when fifteen minutes ago Tsuyoshi had come in and blithely sat down _right_ next to him on the couch and started reading. Every other seat in the room is empty; why on earth his bandmate chose _this_ particular spot is a mystery, but it's driving Nakai nuts because he can't tell if it's on purpose or if Tsuyoshi just happened to decide that spot looked better than all the rest and also because he kind of sort of _likes_ Tsuyoshi and has for a long time and he's pretty sure Tsuyoshi hasn't noticed because he's never had the guts to do anything about it and he really should have gotten over it by now but at the moment all he can think about is the way his bandmate's sleeve keeps brushing his elbow every time he turns a page.  
  
Nakai risks a glance over; his bandmate is concentrating on whatever he's reading and doesn't notice. Tsuyoshi tends to concentrate _too_ hard, sometimes-- his world narrows down to whatever he's focusing on until his thoughts are louder than anything else, drowning out all outside noise. Goro does this, too, which is probably why they've been able to share the same dressing room for fifteen years without driving each other insane. Nakai peeks at the book, curious what his bandmate is so enthralled by--  
  
It's a book on _massage_.  
  
Nakai quickly focuses on the television again. He's _not_ thinking about the impromptu massage his bandmate gave him a few weeks ago, and how relaxing those hands felt on his back. No, this definitely has nothing to do with that. It's probably from that one movie he was in a while back, and now it's just another in the line of hobbies-turned-fixations that Tsuyoshi seems to develop-- Korean, tapdancing, frighteningly detailed knowledge of vintage jeans--  
  
"Nakai-kun," Tsuyoshi says suddenly, and Nakai nearly jumps out of his skin. He stares at the TV screen, hoping fervently to appear distracted and nonchalant, like his attention hasn't been focused entirely on the man sitting next to him for the past fifteen minutes.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Tsuyoshi looks up, pulling at his mouth in a musing sort of way. "Did you know," he says, "That repeated massage can reduce your overall level of anxiety?"  
  
Nakai has to turn and look at him. His bandmate has said some pretty random things over the years, and this is right up there with the best of them. "Huh," he replies weakly. It's true, he _is_ pretty anxious a lot of the time. And if it was Tsuyoshi doing the massage... No, no, no. Dammit, of all things why oh why does it have to be something involving _touching people sensuously_ that his bandmate decides to fixate on?  
  
He realizes with a start that he's staring at the younger man. Tsuyoshi smiles cheerfully at him-- and then slips right back into the book.  
  
The rest of the baseball game passes by in a blur, but it still doesn't occur to Nakai to move his arm.  
  
  
A couple days later, Nakai has what he would eloquently call 'a shitty day.' Little things go wrong right and left; he misses lunch, traffic is more terrible than usual, filming runs late, and by the time he staggers in through the door of his apartment he's exhausted and irritable and only has time for four hours of sleep before he has to get up and face another day.  
  
He plops down on the edge of his bed, rolling his shoulders to try and loosen some of the tension built up there. It doesn't do much, and he thinks wistfully of how good a soak in the bathtub would feel before heaving a sigh and crawling into bed. What he could really use, he thinks sleepily, is someone there next to him, someone who would wake up and give him a back rub and curl back up alongside him without a fuss. Maybe he could find someone good at massage...  
  
He's lying on his stomach in bed, and Tsuyoshi is sitting on the edge, looking down at him.  
  
"Just relax," Tsuyoshi tells him, and pushes Nakai's shirt up, sliding his hands along the exposed skin. Nakai is too exhausted to protest; it feels too good, fingertips trailing heat down his back. They dip under the waist of his sweatpants, curl gently on his hip, and then Tsuyoshi is above him, leaning down over him. "Can I?" he whispers, and Nakai can't think of a reason why not so he lifts his hip and lets Tsuyoshi slip his hand into his boxers and wrap his fingers around--  
  
At that point he wakes up, sweaty and indecently aroused. He throws the cover off and rolls onto his back, and thinks groggily to himself that there is no way in hell he's going to ask Tsuyoshi for another massage now.  
  
  
A week later, after seven long days of rehearsals and recordings and promotion appearances, Nakai is just uncurling in his bed when his body lets him know in no uncertain terms that this kind of foolishness will not be tolerated. His back and legs are painfully stiff, and everything else feels heavier than lead. He has two hours before he is supposed to leave for work.  
  
Nakai braces his arms. It's filming: he can reschedule interviews and miss rehearsals, but filming isn't something you mess with unless you're throwing up or contagious or both. He pushes himself up-- and collapses back down as his arms and back scream incoherently at him. It's possible he could make it out of bed, but leaving his apartment will probably need painkillers and divine intervention.  
  
"Fuck," he says, to no one in particular.  
  
He lies there for a few uncomfortable minutes and then gropes for his cell phone on the floor. He doesn't want to call his manager. It would mean rescheduling filming, and he doesn't want to do that-- he's not _sick_ , he's just... not young anymore. And that's a stupid excuse to rearrange a hundred-some people's schedules for, not to mention horribly embarrassing and undignified. He can manage this. He just needs to get out of bed first.  
  
He just needs, Nakai thinks sourly, a good massage.  
  
He flips open his phone and thumbs through the contacts idly, searching for someone who could possibly help, someone who just happens to have an interest in massage lately, someone who is probably just selfless enough to crawl out of bed and drive all the way over there to give him one. He knows full well what name he's going to end up on, but he needs to scroll past it a few times before he can draw up the courage to call it.  
  
His back twinges a little, and he winces. Okay, what the hell, here goes.  
  
"Hello?" Tsuyoshi picks up after several rings, his voice foggy with sleep.  
  
"Tsuyoshi? It's Nakai."  
  
"Nakai-kun?" His bandmate suddenly sounds much more awake. "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing serious, I just... I need to ask a favor."  
  
There's a pause on the other end, accompanied by faint rustling. He can picture Tsuyoshi sitting up, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah?"  
  
"Can you--" Oh god, oh god. "Can you come over and give me a massage?"  
  
"A massage? Right _now_? ...Is it your back again?"  
  
"...yeah." Nakai runs a hand through his hair in embarrassment. "It's not that serious, though, I think I just slept on it funny," he lies.  
  
"I'll be over in a bit."  
  
Nakai hangs up and spends the next few minutes wishing he was telekinetic and could just unlock the front door with his mind, but when that doesn't seem to work he stretches out his legs and concentrates his decidedly non-telekinetic powers on crawling out of bed.  
  
Ten minutes later, he realizes that he's going to have _Tsuyoshi_ over to give him a _massage_ in his _apartment_ , and considers just leaving the door locked. This can't possibly end well. He's going to make an embarrassing idiot of himself, he's going to blurt out anything and everything he's ever thought, he's going to do something ridiculously meaningful and obvious and Tsuyoshi will politely do his best to get the _fuck_ away.  
  
Twenty minutes later, he can actually walk around just fine, as long as 'just fine' includes feeling like he's made of lead and about to fall on his face and his back is on fire. But Nakai can totally do this, he really doesn't need a massage after all, he--  
  
The doorbell rings. Nakai answers immediately, as he's been waiting next to the door for the past half hour.  
  
"You look awful," Tsuyoshi says. "I brought breakfast."  
  
Nakai kind of wants to kiss him right then and there, but settles for slumping his forehead onto his bandmate's shoulder gratefully. "Thank you," he mumbles, feeling pathetic.  
  
Tsuyoshi's hand rests lightly on his lower back. "I guess you need the massage first."  
  
They head back into Nakai's bedroom, where he practically collapses onto his bed. His relief is quickly accompanied by a wave of trepidation as Tsuyoshi sinks onto the bed next to him, rolling up his sleeves.  
  
"Can you take off your shirt?" Oh god, oh god-- well, it _is_ a massage, and he'd rather have a proper one than be miserable because of his own embarrassment. Nakai strips his shirt off as quickly as he can manage and buries his face in his pillow.  
  
Tsuyoshi sets to work on his neck and shoulders, pushing and pulling at his muscles like so much taffy. Nakai almost moans in relief-- somehow his bandmate, who so often seems to have his head in the clouds, has an instinctive sense for finding and undoing every little knot of tension with just the right amount of pressure.  
  
Then Tsuyoshi starts to move down his back, and he really _does_ moan.  
  
Tsuyoshi laughs. "Doing okay?"  
  
"Mmgh," Nakai responds, glad that his face is hidden. His cheeks are probably a little more flushed than they should be. But the dull throbbing fire is slowly dissipating from his back, leaving blissful, blissful relief in its wake, and he can't help but sigh happily in response.  
  
"Let me know when you want me to stop," Tsuyoshi says, putting a little more weight into his hands, and Nakai is pretty sure he doesn't want his bandmate to stop _ever_ although there are images flickering in the back of his head of what _else_ Tsuyoshi could be doing with his hands that are a little distracting. He'd forgotten just how sensual a massage could be; the professionals they work with during concerts are quick and precise, rarely doing something this thorough, and otherwise Nakai doesn't go out of his way for one. It's embarrassing to be touched like that, it's so intimate it might as well be foreplay, and he's afraid of how his body might react. But right now he's almost completely relaxed under Tsuyoshi's careful ministrations; it feels too good for anything to be uncomfortable about it.  
  
The stiffness and soreness gradually melts away, until all he can feel is his bandmate's fingers moving rhythmically against his skin. He should probably let Tsuyoshi know he can stop but, ahh, Tsuyoshi's hands are kneading his lower back and it feels better than it should and maybe if he shifts a little--  
  
 _Shit._  
  
He's getting hard.  
  
Okay, so he probably shouldn't be surprised considering the thoughts he's been pushing to the back of his mind since the _last_ time his bandmate gave him a massage, but his body has always been more easily persuaded in the morning and Tsuyoshi's fingers are still working magic on his back and he kind of just wants to push down into the mattress and he's getting harder just thinking about it so he should probably do something _now_.  
  
"Tsuyoshi," he says, trying to enunciate clearly. "I think. Um. I think you can..."  
  
Tsuyoshi's hands pause, to both his relief and extreme disappointment. "Do you want me to stop?"  
  
"Nn," Nakai says distractedly, because he's concentrating everything on _not_ being hard at the moment. "I mean, yeah."  
  
"Really?" Tsuyoshi sounds disappointed. "I hadn't gotten to the last part of your back yet. And I was going to do your legs, too--"  
  
"That'sokayI'llmanage," Nakai says hastily, before his bandmate decides to demonstrate.  
  
Tsuyoshi sits back. "I wish you'd relax more." He sighs. "There's not really any point to this if you're just going to tense up again."  
  
"I'm relaxed," Nakai says weakly. "Totally relaxed. I'm just lying shirtless in bed getting the best massage of my life, is all."  
  
"Oh," Tsuyoshi says slowly, and Nakai buries his stupid, stupid face in his arms, because so much for hiding _that_ now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. On the plus side, fatal embarrassment seems to be the perfect thing to help kill an erection.  
  
His bandmate shifts, and doesn't seem about to run screaming. "Are you sure you don't want me to keep going?"  
  
Only Tsuyoshi could make that sound like an innocent question, Nakai thinks, and right now he's not entirely sure that it is. He props himself up, risking a glance back at his bandmate. "What kind of question is _that_?"  
  
Tsuyoshi shrugs. "Professionals deal with that sort of thing all the time," he answers, fidgeting with a crease in the bedsheets. "But I wouldn't mind, anyway."  
  
Now that he isn't panicking over his own wayward blood flow, Nakai notices that his bandmate is actually kind of flushed. "You wouldn't?" Hold on, wouldn't mind _what_? Massaging him while he tries not to fuck the mattress? Massaging him while he _does_ fuck the mattress? ...massaging him and then fucking _him_ into the mattress?  
  
He mentally clamps down on his imagination before it gets too carried away. "Do you _want_ to keep going?" he asks. He's not sure if Tsuyoshi means what he thinks he does or if this all just wishful thinking playing tricks on him-- and if _is_ just wishful thinking then they need to get off his bed in a hurry.  
  
Tsuyoshi turns pink, but he holds Nakai's gaze. "I want to do whatever you want to do." He reaches out and brushes the tips of his fingers along the back of Nakai's knee. "What do _you_ want me to do?"  
  
Nakai's throat goes dry. Does Tsuyoshi really mean-- _yes_ , yes he does. And somewhere in the back of his mind Nakai is very, very happy about this, but at the moment all he can do is stare at his bandmate. I'm dreaming. I have to be. This sort of thing only happens in dramas. Except now Tsuyoshi is here, on his bed, waiting for an answer...  
  
Well, what do I want to do?  
  
"Come here," he croaks. Tsuyoshi does.  
  
There's a brief moment where they're nose-to-nose, not quite meeting each other's eyes, and then the younger man makes the decision for him and kisses him. It's chaste, barely more than pressing their lips together, but when Tsuyoshi pulls away Nakai settles a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him into another, deeper kiss. He's definitely wanted to do _this_ for a while.  
  
At some point, he rolls onto his back because his elbow is killing him, and Tsuyoshi follows, and things apparently get heated up a little because when they break apart again they're both breathing heavily and Nakai is very obviously getting hard again. He's kind of embarrassed to react so much just from kissing, but then Tsuyoshi glances down at himself with a laugh and it's clear that he is, too. Nakai squeezes the back of Tsuyoshi's neck lightly, still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that the person he's been in denial over for so long is now lying in bed making out with him, and moreover is considerably turned on by it.  
  
"What now?" Tsuyoshi asks, almost whispering. Nakai hasn't gotten to that yet. He's not sure of his voice yet, either, so instead his fingers drift down to the first button on Tsuyoshi's shirt. His bandmate gets the idea, sitting back to unbutton it.  
  
"Wait--" Nakai tugs Tsuyoshi back towards him, reaching for the buttons himself. It's not like he's seeing anything new, but he wants to watch his bandmate's chest slowly exposed under his own hands, to slide his fingers from Tsuyoshi's neck down to his navel and--  
  
He stops, reality squeezing in his chest. "Tsuyoshi." The younger man opens his eyes, shut in momentary bliss. "This is a bad idea."  
  
Tsuyoshi's expression sobers a little. "It could be." He pauses, casting about for words. His gaze travels down to Nakai's stomach, not as firm as it once was, and he tentatively settles his fingers there. "Would it, though? Anymore? We know each other."  
  
Nakai feels his stomach flicker a little under the touch. It hasn't been _that_ long since he last had sex-- well, maybe it has-- but everything feels slightly unfamiliar, like he's just figuring things out all over again. By rights it should be terrifying. But Tsuyoshi is right; he knows every inflection of the younger man's voice, every facial expression and gesture, every pride and doubt and fear.  
  
"Do you trust me?" he asks, reaching to tug one of his bandmate's sleeves down off of his arm. The words feel ridiculous and cliched in his mouth, incongruous with his ragged, cigarette-choked voice.  
  
Tsuyoshi slides the other sleeve off, casting the shirt aside. "I trust you." He smiles in simple honesty. Nakai pulls him down impulsively to press his nose against the younger man's cheek; the corners of his mouth are stretching of their own accord and he feels a little giddy all of a sudden.  
  
"I mean, you've been waiting a long time for me to notice, haven't you?" Tsuyoshi adds, and Nakai laughs weakly.  
  
"I dunno how you _couldn't_ have noticed."  
  
"I'm not very observant sometimes."  
  
Nakai attacks, tickling him. Tsuyoshi yelps and flails, nearly falling off the bed, and then tickles him back until they're both laughing and breathless. Nakai manages to end up sitting on top of him, splaying his fingers down Tsuyoshi's chest and grinning when his bandmate's breath catches in a different way. The expression on the younger man's face changes, and Nakai has to look down at his hands-- he stopped letting himself show how he felt a long time ago.  
  
Maybe it's time to try again.  
  
"I trust you," he says, unable to look anywhere but at his own hands. In his ears it sounds too easy, too light, like he hasn't spent years shoving his feelings to the backburner to keep them from overflowing. But then Tsuyoshi's hands cover his and curl their fingers together and pull him down, and it occurs to Nakai that Tsuyoshi knows every inflection of his voice, too. And from the way Tsuyoshi is smiling too much to kiss properly, the message seems to have gotten across.  
  
Nakai lifts his head between kisses. "I have to go to work in an hour."  
  
Tsuyoshi's hands settle on his lower back, massaging gently. "I should finish that last spot," he says.  
  
"Take your time," Nakai replies, and leans down to kiss him again.


End file.
